


Torn

by Anonymous



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Blood, Flogging, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-13 01:26:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1207696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I will not,” he says with a quick terrified shake of his head. “I cannot.”</p><p>Grantaire is forced to punish Enjolras, their friends are forced to watch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Torn

**Author's Note:**

> From the kink meme: "Canon-era Amis are captured and imprisoned, and one of them (Grantaire?) is forced to give another (Enjolras?) a brutal whipping, on pain of a much nastier fate befalling both of them. The others have to watch."

The leather weighs heavily in his hand. Black and braided, it warms with his touch. He stares down at it, unable to move. 

“I’m waiting.”

Grantaire doesn’t look at the officer, only at the instrument of pain that had been placed in his hand moments before. His eyes travel to the opposite end of the large cell, where Enjolras stands, facing away from him, his shirt torn from the nape of his neck to his waist and his wrists bound above his head. 

The officer shifts his weight onto his other foot, and the sound of his boots scraping softly across the dirt is enough to startle Grantaire out of his reverie. 

“I will not,” he says with a quick terrified shake of his head. “I cannot.”

“You will,” the officer says coolly. On the opposite end of the room stand his friends, beaten into unwilling submission, too weak to do anything but watch. The officer takes a few steps towards them and grabs one of them by the collar – the light in the cell is dim, but there is no mistaking Jehan’s silhouette in the darkness. 

The young man trembles ever so slightly, possibly from the damp chill in the air, possibly from fear. Grantaire cannot tell. In one quick movement the officer grabs one of Jehan’s hands with one of his own and singles out a finger. The other hand produces a knife, the blade flashing in the low light as he brings it down and thumbs it against Jehan’s knuckle.

“You will,” he repeats. Jehan’s eyes widen and when he struggles, another officer grabs him by the hair and forces him down to his knees.

Grantaire nearly drops the whip in his hand. “Please,” he begs as he puts a hand up. “Please, don’t hurt him.”

“Then get on with it.”

He looks back towards Enjolras, who has been so still and silent Grantaire thinks it entirely possible he is unconscious. But no, after a moment Enjolras inclines his head slightly and the muscles in his arms tense. 

Grantaire takes a few steps towards Enjolras, turning the handle of the whip in his hand. He shuts his eyes, squeezing them tight as his fingers do likewise against the handle.

“I am so sorry, my love,” he breathes, loud enough only for Enjolras, who lets his head drop back down. 

The first lash hits his back only hard enough to make a soft pink mark across Enjolras’ skin. He tenses, but does not make a sound. 

“Harder.” 

Grantaire complies. He brings the whip down harder on Enjolras, and again, red angry welts beginning to blossom, blood under unbroken skin.

He hears the sound of flesh hitting flesh and a dull thud behind him and turns. Combeferre is on the ground, his hand gripping his face, blood pouring through his fingers from his broken nose. 

Grantaire begins to panic. “You said they wouldn’t be harmed.”

“Provided the rest of the traitors witnessed their chief reduced to bloody ribbons. This one--" He delivers a swift kick to Combeferre's gut, and he doubles over with a quiet groan. "--was not watching."

Grantaire meets Courfeyrac's eyes. It may be a trick of the light, the flicker of the candles in the darkness, but Grantaire almost thinks he can see the young man give him a nod, his gaze never breaking. 

He cannot allow any more of them to be hurt. Once again he tightens his grip on the handle of the whip, and turns back to Enjolras. He brings the leather down hard on his back. 

First there is a loud crack, and then a scream quickly stifled. One long, red line has appeared, glistening in the candlelight, bleeding slowly. 

“Good. Again.”

Grantaire complies. Again he raises the whip and brings it down onto Enjolras’ back, opening another furrow in his flesh and eliciting another cry from Enjolras’ lips. 

He quickly loses count of the lashes, and cannot distinguish the wounds on Enjolras’ back through the obscene amount of blood that covers his skin. All he can do is continue, each strike earning a cry more pained than the last. 

Let him pass out, Grantaire silently begs. Please, just let him pass out.

He has no concept of how much time has passed. Someone orders it enough, and he inhales sharply when he feels a hand on his wrist, feels the whip taken out of his hand, sees an officer unbind Enjolras’ wrists and the man drop to the floor in a heap. 

He forgets the officers, forgets their friends, and rushes to Enjolras’ side. Blond curls are stuck to his forehead with sweat, his eyes bloodshot and lips bitten bloody. 

Grantaire tears off what remains of Enjolras’ shirt and uses the linen to staunch the flow of blood from the deep gashes he created. “Lie on your stomach, thus,” he says softly to Enjolras, helping move the man into a better position on the ground. Grantaire pulls his own shirt off and begins to tear it into wide strips.

He hasn’t noticed the others have been taken from their cell and the two have been left alone. Nothing else matters but Enjolras, broken and bleeding by his own hand. 

There is a cup of water, and Grantaire bids Enjolras to drink, tips the contents over his lips and helps tilt his head so he may drink. 

After a few minutes Grantaire attempts to place a strip of his shirt atop the wounds, but Enjolras cries out, raspy and raw. Grantaire makes soft hushing sounds, gently running his hand through his lover’s hair.

“Can you ever forgive me?” he asks softly, ghosting his fingers across Enjolras’ pale cheek. 

The other man reaches for his hand, and gives it a weak squeeze. He is too worn to speak, blood loss dizzying him, but he manages to curve one corner of his lip upwards. Grantaire brings his hand to his mouth and places a soft, gentle kiss on his fingertips. 

"My love."


End file.
